23 Days to Go

We are girls, and in the South, watching football has little to do with watching handoffs and blocks and everything to do with cute guys and wardrobe. Preparing elaborate tailgate parties, and dressing in a trendy outfit with really cute shoes includes swooning over well-conditioned guys with good looks and great muscles.

Prior to his magnetic charisma and business savvy bringing financial status, Lance Alworth was my dreamboat throughout the 1960s. I went beyond the moon for the baby-faced football hero. The first time I saw him pictured in a magazine, I wrote for an autograph. “Oh, please let his actual handwriting inscribe my name on his photo,” I begged the Razorback gods.

Waiting for the Arkansas Gazette on the weekends brought great excitement, especially if there were articles about Lance’s weekend heroics. Every picture and article that mentioned Lance I added to a scrapbook.

At the Razorback locker room with the prospect of breathing Lance’s air I became a girl possessed. At long last, I saw Lance’s head. I let go of Daddy’s hand and I was gone, scooting between grown men and ladies.

Still damp-haired, fresh from the shower, he looked down at me, took my autograph book and signed his name. “You don’t want my autograph,” he said. “Oh, yes I do,” I cooed as a little wide-eyed girl. I circled “his dirt,” pressed from his thumb as he held the page steady.  

Several years later while at a school-related convention held in Springdale, Arkansas, we headquartered at a motel in Fayetteville, the home campus for the Arkansas Razorbacks. I hatched a plot for free time, planning to track down Lance, take his picture, and get close enough to say, “Hello!” before I fainted.

            It was 1962. We called a cab. I told the driver, “Take us to Lance Alworth’s house.” He drove to the student housing and pointed to a duplex. “There it is,” he said. We took pictures and saw a male peeking from behind the curtains, so we squealed, “Back up!” 

Mr. Taxi could have taken us anywhere and told us anything. We were gullible, infatuated with the situation and our own cleverness, snapping pictures with our Brownie cameras. Packed away in attic boxes somewhere are pictures of a duplex with a curtain pulled back. Was it Lance?  I rather doubt it. Then, I was certain of it.